


Chain

by dawnsshadow (ptolemy)



Series: Chain [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!, Yu-Gi-Oh! Series
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4481216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptolemy/pseuds/dawnsshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a modern Egypt still ruled by a Pharaoh, struggling on as the world around it changes, a thief and a guard find themselves tangled in a quest to change the rules and break the chains that bind them. Thief King/Malik, among others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sierra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra/gifts).



The man never stopped grinning.

The guards dragged him into his cell, body limp and bleeding from days of interrogations, but even between ragged breaths the man was grinning. They threw him into a sitting position against the wall and chained him there, arms held high and legs bound together. The grin was maddening, and, as Malik Ishtar watched between the bars of the cage, the guards spat on the prisoner’s beaten form before tossing what had apparently once been his jacket at him. Now in filthy tatters, the red garment fell over the prisoner’s near-naked form, the only source of warmth granted to him.

Malik was one of the youngest guards, which made him a prime target for the worst jobs. The other guards sneered as they pushed a basin of water and some cloth at him, ordering him to clean the grinning prisoner up for the Pharaoh’s presence. Malik’s stomach turned over – appearing before the Pharaoh meant the highest rank of punishment, reserved for those who committed mass murder, desecrated the holy shrines or attempted treason. They would be judged by the Sennen Items themselves, a horrifying process that was only whispered about, with the understanding that those who were subjected to it were the very lowest of humanity. And now Malik would be alone with one such prisoner, and he hardly expected any of his fellow guards to help him if he needed helping. He swallowed. 

Malik entered the cell cautiously, keys hooked tightly at his waist. The prisoner hadn’t moved from the position he’d been set in, body draped against the wall and floor, head bowed and wild white locks covering his face. Thinking he might be asleep, Malik allowed a small breath of relief. He could just clean up the man’s wounds and be done before he woke up. Malik kneeled beside him, setting his basin down and dipping a cloth into the cool water. He wrung it out and began to scrub at the drying blood on the man’s legs. 

“Be more gentle. I don’t need more scars just from being cleaned.”

Malik jumped at the sudden, low voice, knocking into the basin and splashing water onto the stone floor. The man’s shoulders were quivering a bit with laughter, and Malik caught a flash of white teeth, again that grin.

“You’re clumsy for a guard,” the prisoner said. Malik watched as the prisoner lifted his head. Though the man’s face had endured the same beating as the rest of him, swollen with bruises and dried blood, his eyes were bright and alive, watching him carefully. “What’s your name?” 

“Malik,” Malik stammered after a too-long moment of silence, then cursed himself for answering at all. The back of his mind buzzed with the imaginary jeers of his fellows for showing weakness in front of a prisoner, and he quickly pulled himself out of his stupor and moved back to the man’s side, taking the now half-empty basin along with him. “And I’m supposed to be cleaning you for the Pharaoh, so sit still.”

The prisoner laughed loudly – so loudly that Malik instinctively flinched and glanced towards the door to see if anyone was watching. “You’re shaking,” said the prisoner. “I won’t bite, you know.”

Malik looked at his hands before he could stop himself and scowled when he saw he was in fact trembling. The prisoner was unraveling his nerves. “Shut up,” he barked, and he returned to his task, scrubbing skin and open wounds alike. 

The man laughed again, and Malik could feel that grin burning through him. 

“Are you frightened because of the tombs I’ve raided, dragging the corpses of our kings through the mud to take their precious treasures? Or of the homes I’ve burned, killing the ones who got in my way? Or, perhaps,” the prisoner’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper, “because of the people I’ve murdered, breaking their arms and putting my knife into their eye sockets just to hear them scream before I cut out their throats?” His voice ended on an upward lilt, and Malik felt a shudder pass through him. He leaned into his work with intent focus, and the man laughed again.

“Don’t talk like you know me,” Malik snapped. “I’m not afraid of you. The Pharaoh easily overpowered and captured you, and now look at you.”

The man sighed and said in a humored voice, “Rumour is I’m going to get to meet his Royal Highness soon enough. Shame I have to go escorted by those brawns-for-brains out there, rather than on horseback, meeting the Pharaoh head-on. Well,” he paused to grin again, “Perhaps not head-on, seeing as how I’m a good three feet taller than he is.”

Malik glowered; the man’s self-amusement only annoyed him more. He scrubbed until the dark skin of the man’s legs shone raw and red, biting back a few snide but rather lame remarks—something about a height complex.

“Are you curious?” the man asked at length.

A moment’s silence, then, “About what.”

“How the grand King of Thieves got captured, of course.”

Malik stopped cleaning. His eyes turned to those stark ones fixated on him, and one eyebrow slowly went up. “The _what_?”

The man’s grin could have split his face. And he began to talk.

He told Malik—in unnecessarily gruesome detail, Malik thought–-of how it had been a grand chase through the desert, with the Pharaoh’s highest priests at his heels, and how he’d lasted two days running from them before hunger and a lack of sleep had started taking its toll on his ka, the beast of his soul, and he was overpowered. But not, of course, without putting up a great and long-winded fight. And, despite himself, Malik listened. For as long as he could remember, his own life had been safe to the point of boredom, and the stories Bakura told sounded so far from Malik’s reality, they might as well have been straight out of a fairytale. This naturally made him wonder if the thief was actually telling the truth. 

As if to reinforce the doubt, the man finished his story with, “And now I’m here, waiting for a dashing hero to break me out.”

Malik snorted and returned to cleaning a deep cut on the man’s chest. He noticed, with a mix of annoyance and pride, that his hands were no longer trembling. “There are no heroes for the likes of you.”

***

Time passed slowly in the days that followed, a waiting game for the Pharaoh’s presence which, even for the “King of Thieves,” was hard to come by. Every day, Malik was elected to bring said thief his daily gruel and help him eat it, and every day, Malik was rewarded with some new story he never asked for. And, although he wouldn’t admit it, Malik began to look forward to the company. It was more conversation than Malik had had in a long time, and on a less degrading level than that of his fellow guards.

The man told Malik about many of his greatest steals, the tombs he was most proud of; he told Malik rumours of corruption in the ruling classes; sometimes, he just talked about the best place for a beer while intimating how much better the food was there, in some low-class bar, than in the Pharaoh’s own dungeons. But Malik never learned anything more than this – of who the thief was, of where his hatred of the Pharaoh came from, of what he was ‘king’ of – and he never asked. He was just relieved that the prisoner never said anything to the other guards about their conversations.

The days blended together; a week passed, then two, and at last the date was set for the prisoner’s appearance before the Pharaoh. Judgment day, as the thief so fondly called it, was coming, and though his injuries were healing, even Malik could tell that the thief wasn’t strong enough to handle another tortuous interrogation or anything else the Pharaoh had planned. Malik wondered if the thief knew it too. His grin had started to waver.

The night before the Judgment Day, Malik stopped for a moment outside the thief’s cell. Sunken in his bonds, the thief’s mouth was set in a hard line, his eyes deadened and staring at the floor. In this position, even his skin seemed to pull over his bones, his hair flat, all of him a picture of hopelessness. It was a familiar look in this place, but not on him. He covered it quickly when Malik clanged the door open. He sat up a bit, the smirk returned, his gaze now sharp and focused. 

“Judgment day’s almost here,” he said, and Malik nodded as he kneeled beside him. It had been on his mind all day, chased by a feeling lurking in the back of his mind. He was…angry. It was almost a feeling of injustice, and nothing his rational mind presented could convince him that this coming judgement was deserved. He knew the thief’s stories—this was no innocent man—but still the feeling did not explain itself and it did not leave.

Malik sat with the thief for a while after feeding him, but the thief had apparently run out of stories. Malik wasn’t even sure why he always stayed except that, as the thief had amusedly pointed out to him a few days before, it was better to feel on equal terms with a prisoner than to return outside and become the dog of the other guards. Malik had replied that they weren’t on equal terms at all, as only one of them had the keys to unlock his chains, and the thief had promptly changed the subject.

They sat in silence, until at last Malik couldn’t take it anymore.

“Looks like your hero never came,” he said with a stiff attempt at humor. The thief was quiet a moment before his lips curled into a remnant of his old grin.

“No, he did. I just don’t think he figured it out in time.”

Malik blinked, mind quickly running through the weeks. No one had visited the thief, and there were always guards posted outside his cell, except for when Malik was tending to him, so who…?

“We’re two peas in a pod, Malik,” the thief continued, closing his eyes, and Malik felt his heart thud painfully. This prisoner, this thief didn’t really expect _Malik_ to free him, did he? It was impossible! He could be _fired_ —he could be _arrested_ —

He could do nothing, and lose someone he was starting to call his friend. 

Malik put the empty bowl aside, putting the spoon inside and then stirring as if he could somehow divine the future in dregs of gruel. He thought of his family. He thought of the Pharaoh. He thought of a lot of meaningless things, dragging the spoon noisily along the edge of the bowl, and he was angry about so many of them.

He could hear the thief breathing, even and steady, and he knew that those eyes were on him. There was no laughter in them this time.

Malik scowled and threw the spoon at the thief’s head before grappling with his keys, clawing at the clasp with his fingernails until he got it undone. The thief was staring with a mix of surprise and amusement – he hadn’t even flinched at the spoon. Malik got to his feet as he flipped through the keys, shoving several of them against the keyhole in the thief’s manacles that held his wrists aloft. He finally found the right one and the manacles popped open. The thief’s hands fell to his lap and the empty metal clattered noisily against the stone wall.

Second thoughts caught up with Malik swiftly at this point. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t notice until the keys began to jangle noisily. What was he doing? It wasn’t just his job he was risking – he could get _killed_ for this! It was _treason_. The thief was rubbing his numb arms, but, as if sensing the flurry of thoughts in Malik’s mind (maybe he could get the manacles back on him before anyone noticed?), the thief looked up, eyes sharp and alive, and he snatched the keys from Malik’s unresisting hands.

The thief plucked the correct key from the group easily – so easily, in fact, that Malik later suspected the thief had had his eye on it for a while now – and unlocked the cuffs about his ankles. His legs were free in moments, but even that was too long as voices approached, complaining about the noise. Malik froze. He didn’t have any will left; his stomach felt like a deflating balloon. He’d just freed a criminal. A convicted thief. A man headed for the Pharaoh’s judgment. The King of Thieves. Him. Freed. Him. Already he could hear the Pharaoh’s sentence for such a sin. He could feel the burn of the whip, see the Sennen Items prepared to weigh his soul…

A sharp punch across the jaw snapped him back to reality, and his briefly fuzzy vision refocused on the man before him. Drawn to his full height and no longer limp in the guard’s hold, Malik suddenly realized why he’d been afraid of the man at first. He stood tall, gaunter from his time in prison but not bowed in the slightest – his very presence seemed to ripple with new energy. Malik stared blankly for a moment before he realized that his jaw was starting to ache, and a scowl overtook his awe.

“That hurt!” he protested in a sharp whisper.

“Stop panicking,” the thief hissed as he circled around Malik towards the door. “Tell them you were undoing your belt to get the keys and leave when I knocked you out.” 

“What…?” Malik turned, but suddenly lost his footing, the world spinning away as first shock and then a cold pain ran down the back of his skull. The thief had struck him hard from behind, and the world went sideways just as Malik realized what had happened. His last vision was of the man’s bare feet moving swiftly towards the door. The man he’d freed. The man whose name Malik still didn’t know.


	2. Scrappy

Egypt had endured. This was the legacy it held, above all things. Through the reigns of conquering nations, beyond expansions west and east, through foreign emperors and sultans, commanders and kings, after the scope of the world changed and changed and changed, Egypt endured. For six thousand years, an immeasurable amount of time, they had called a man or woman their king, raised that person to the level of a god, and lived under his or her reign. The dead kings were so numerous that their coffins and pyramids were often built on the ruins of their ancestors. The sands were thick with corpses.

This is not to say that the face of Egypt was not changed with the passage of time. Peace came and went. So did illness, plague, and foreign religions. There were times when many starved, and many died, and the people were not always happy. Several times in its thousand-year history, Egypt had been conquered and remade in the image of other countries or empires – these invasions brought foreign words, foreign rulers, and foreign thoughts into Egypt’s bloodlines, but they were always overthrown with time, because in the end, the people of Egypt knew of no better life than the one they had under their own Pharaoh. For Egypt, through time and change, still had her gods.

* * *

 

Malik awoke with a start as the bus jumped beneath him, the frame shuddering dangerously. He winced and rubbed his face where it had been pressed against the glass, now indented with the lines of the frame. He had been dreaming of something fitful and dark, but the memory of the events of several weeks prior had been mixed in with the chaos – a certain prisoner’s eyes staring into his before he’d been jerked awake. Malik sighed, sinking deeper into the torn plastic cushioning of his seat.

He’d been lucky just to lose his job, they’d told him. Letting a prisoner, that prisoner, break out, whether accidentally or not, was a crime punishable by more than just a slap on the wrist, but in the end, the head jailer seemed to take pity on Malik – at least, that was how it had seemed. Malik had suspicions that someone had taken an outside hand in the matter.

Regardless, he wasn’t much better off. In jail, at least he would have had food to eat. Now, without money or prospects, he was forced to travel from town to town looking for work, and, since horses were definitely not his favorite mode of transportation, he was forced to resort to a more public means. He grimaced as the bus jolted again, smacking the side of his head into the window. He’d taken a seat in the farthest corner in the back, hoping to avoid any and all human contact, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d be mugged by one of the other passengers if he so much as breathed wrong.

Malik pulled his folded arms tighter into his chest and squirmed downwards in his seat, trying to get more comfortable and resume his nap. He had plenty of time before they reached the next town. He rested his temple against the window, watching the monotone sands whirling and kicking up around the bus, and, just as his eyes started to drift closed again, the bus gave an almighty jerk and came to an abrupt stop, throwing Malik into the back of the seat in front of him.

With a groan, Malik rubbed his head and glanced down the aisle, halfway to vocalizing his protests before he realized that someone was actually getting on the bus. Malik snapped his head back to the window – the outside was still a swirling, sandy nothing – and then to the man who’d apparently been wandering around in the middle of it.

The bus driver glowered at the stranger, and seemed ready to berate him for bringing sand into his bus before a sudden motion and a bag thrust into the driver’s chest silenced him. The stranger strolled onto the bus as the driver looked in the bag, appeared satisfied with its contents, and closed the doors again without comment.

The man was almost completely bundled up against the harsh desert sands, such that only his eyes could be seen between layers of linen. He glanced around the bus as it started up again and he shuffled down the aisle, heading, much to Malik’s chagrin, right in his direction. Malik attempted to make himself as small as possible as the man flopped into the seat to his left, exhaling noisily. It was just his luck – the bus was almost completely empty, and still the man had to take the seat right next to him. Fortunately, the man didn’t even seem to register his presence as he made to undo the fabric bound around his face. Malik settled grumpily into his corner, but he couldn’t help a curious glance out of the corner of his eye as the fabric fell away, spilling out sand onto the man’s clothes and freeing wild locks of strange, white hair.

It was a long moment before Malik’s head slowly swiveled, his eyes wide, to the man who was now shaking the sand out of his hair. White hair, a vivid scar now clearly visible as the man pulled away the fabric, and – now Malik was staring openly – bright blue eyes that hadn’t left Malik’s dreams alone for weeks.

Malik made a strange, strangled sort of sound as he threw himself away from the man, pressing himself into his corner of the bus. The man glanced at him with an odd look, but there was no hint of recognition in his gaze, and Malik allowed himself a moment of relief at the thought that maybe he was wrong, or maybe, at least, the man didn’t recognize him. Maybe, outside of the context of a dingy cell, they were strangers again.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on it, because the bus hadn’t been going another five minutes before it came to another sudden stop, throwing Malik half-forward, half-into the man beside him. He winced as he was shoved off again, but the man was on his feet abruptly before Malik could say anything. Malik straightened to see him staring intently at the front of the bus, where the doors were opened again, this time to five men. In the lead was a man who, despite the cloth bound about his face, could at once be identified by a large metal ring hanging from a cord around his neck, five spikes dangling from the ring’s edge, and the Eye of Horus in its center pyramid. It hung clearly visible in a way that suggested this man wouldn’t tolerate not being recognized. Mahaado. Captain of the guard, Pharaoh’s most trusted priest, and there he was, on a dinky old bus in the middle of nowhere, glaring at the man who was slowly regaining a far-too-familiar grin. Malik felt the bottom of his stomach drop into his shoes.

“Well, well,” said the man beside Malik. “You’re quicker than I thought, captain!”

Mahaado scowled darkly. “There’s nowhere left for you to run, thief! You made a mistake, getting on this bus. You’re trapped.”

The man shrugged lazily, smirking. “I just wanted to get out of the sand, captain,” he said with casual drawl, and the bottom of Malik’s stomach found a new home in his throat. It was certain now – he hadn’t been wrong. He was barely two feet away from the King of Thieves, the man he himself had freed not a month before. For a blazing moment, he had the idea that he’d brought the man here with his dreams, and then thought, no less madly, that perhaps the man had been following him this whole time.

The man’s eyes darted around the bus quickly and he licked his lips, grinning wider. The other passengers were absolutely still, pressed into their own seats with their eyes anywhere but at the scene in front of them. They clearly had no intention of helping the captain and his men, but it didn’t seem that they needed it. Mahaado was right; the bus was tiny, and there was scarcely enough room for one man to stand in the aisle, let alone for the King of Thieves to somehow squeeze past five men and get to the door.

Mahaado seemed quite conscious of this, and he let a small, confident smirk of his own creep onto his face. “Men,” he said, “arrest the king of thieves.” He drawled the title mockingly, and two of the men behind him laughed as they carefully pushed past Mahaado and approached the man beside Malik.

The man didn’t step back, not that he had much room to anyway, and he raised his hands in submission, though the smirk on his lips clearly showed he had other plans. The guards approached, swords drawn and at the ready, and just as the closest one was about to reach out and grab the man’s wrist—

“Wait!” Malik was aware of the fact that he was on his feet, and that he’d spoken, but he could not remember choosing to do so. The guard did hesitate, however – no longer than a breath, just long enough for his eyes to flit to Malik’s, his hand outstretched – but it was enough. The King of Thieves moved, his raised hands grabbing the guard’s head and cracking it hard against his own. As the guard slumped, the man grabbed the sword from his falling hand and neatly sheathed it in the second guard’s chest, shoving him backwards to the floor.

It all happened so fast that by the time Malik had processed what he had just seen – one dead, one unconscious, just because, because – his knees were already buckling out from under him, his will gone. But the man seemed to notice, because he grabbed Malik by the upper arm and wrenched him upright again, bringing Malik roughly into the aisle in front of him.

Malik was breathing hard now, suddenly a shield between the King of Thieves, and three guards who had just lost two of their own. He barely had a moment to feel terrified of them when a bloody sword at his throat reminded him of the danger behind as well.

“Move and this child dies,” the man hissed. “And we couldn’t have the good captain’s name tarnished by the death of an innocent bystander now could we?”

Mahaado’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Malik had a sudden clear vision of what was going to happen. He was going to die. He was going to die in this man’s arms as punishment from the gods for letting him go. That small mercy had led one man, maybe two, to their deaths on the floor of this bus, and now—

“What’s the matter, Mahaado?” the man called, louder. “Can’t do it?” He laughed, high-pitched and insane, and the blade bit deeper into Malik’s throat. “Get me a horse!”

The guards looked to their leader for instructions, and Mahaado, his whole body visibly tense, stared at the man with loathing. After a long silence, he gave one, tiny little nod to the guard nearest, who hesitated only a fraction of a second before disembarking from the bus again. He returned to the entrance a moment later with a tether in hand. Malik nearly yelled as he was suddenly shoved forward, alarmed that this was the moment the blade would go through his neck. But the man was careful to keep the blade pressed without cutting, and he pushed Malik ahead of him as a shield, clambering over the fallen guards. Malik tried hard not to look down at their bodies as he went.

The other guard and Mahaado were forced to squeeze into seats as the man led Malik down the aisle toward the door. Malik let his eyes dart upwards as they moved past, but Mahaado’s eyes were suddenly piercing into his, and with a jolt of terror, he looked away again. He was shoved down the steps of the bus, to where the guard stood with one of the horses they had arrived on.

“Get on,” the man said sharply, and it took Malik a moment to realize he was being spoken to.

“What?” he asked raspily. He felt the blade lift from his neck, but he still didn’t dare move, standing completely still and staring straight ahead at the monstrously large horse that seemed completely unfazed by sand or sun. Nothing, not even the terror of dying at the end of a blade, quite suppressed his instinctive dread of the creature.

“Get on!” the man said, louder, and Malik jolted forward, grabbing hold of the horse’s saddle and pulling himself upwards in a messy and terrified scramble. The horse seemed to sense his fear, and it paced impatiently on the spot as he squirmed his way into the saddle and held on to the reins for dear life.

A moment later, the man had followed him up onto the horse, but Malik didn’t dare look back at him, or at the guards or the bus – all he could focus on was the mane of the creature he was clinging to and the fact that he was actually being _kidnapped_ by a man he’d risked his life to save in the first place.

“Much obliged for the ride, captain!” the man called, then wrapped both arms around Malik in a half-embrace so that he could grab the reins from him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be. Say hello to the Pharaoh for me!” The man jabbed his heels into the horse’s side and pulled the reins, and with an annoyed whinny from the horse they were suddenly and joltingly on their way. The horse swiftly came to a full gallop, and Malik closed his eyes, folding his body in as sand whipped into his face and stung at his exposed skin. His chest ached, and he suddenly realized he’d been holding his breath. He released it in a quick gasp, praying to every god he could remember that he wouldn’t fall off.

“Malik,” said a voice suddenly right beside his ear, strangely calm. His heart thudded painfully, and he made an effort to turn his head without loosening his death-grip.

“You remember me?!” he shouted.

The man grinned savagely at him. “Of course,” he said. “It’s not every day someone helps me out—twice. You think I would forget?”

Malik hoped his glare adequately showed how he felt about this kind of reunion. “It didn’t seem to stop you from threatening and kidnapping me!”

Surprisingly, the man laughed. “You shouted and stopped that guard. You involved yourself in this one, kid.”

There again was that hollow feeling in Malik’s stomach. He’d done it twice. A small mercy had put him right in the middle of danger again with this man. If he had just kept his mouth shut, they all might have just left him alone; the man had been doing a good job of pretending not to know him after all. Malik groaned and returned to his cowed position over the neck of the horse.

“Don’t worry,” the man said, again leaning into his ear to speak. “There are worse things than being stuck with me for a little while.”

Malik scoffed, but he didn’t really feel like arguing. A thought occurred to him, and he frowned.

“You never did tell me your name,” he said into the horse, sounding even to his own ears somewhat petulant.

The man laughed. “Bakura,” he said.


	3. Bird Cage

“So what you’re saying is that you let a thief who has desecrated countless tombs, including that of our great Pharaoh’s father, stolen royal treasure and even attacked the Pharaoh directly – you let him walk off the bus because of some _boy_?”

Seth’s voice was cutting, and though Mahaado longed to shoot him a dirty look, to return the abuse, he kept his head bowed. Before he could reply, the firm but not unkind voice of his king interrupted.

“That is enough, Seth. Please explain your thoughts on the situation, Mahaado.”

Mahaado nodded, finally daring to glance up from the floor, though he did not rise from bended knee. Pharaoh Atemu was seated in his throne, which looked down on the audience chamber from several steps above it. His six priests sat to his left and right, completing the half-circle of judgment around him – his own seat sat empty at the Pharaoh’s rightmost side. His king was dressed in casual linens, without any of the additional cloaks or accessories of formal government work; this sudden meeting must have pulled him from what little free time he had. Mahaado released a shaky breath, then said,

“While I initially believed the boy to be an innocent bystander, perhaps acting on impulse or out of fear, it seems his description matches that of the jail guard who, just a few weeks prior, had been present during the thief’s escape. He claimed innocence at the time, but now I feel the coincidence is too great.”

Mahaado couldn’t help himself – his eyes darted briefly to Isis’s seat. “I believe the boy may have been a partner of the thief, and that the escapes – both of them – were planned.”

There were some uncomfortable murmurs and shifting among the priests, and the Pharaoh nodded slowly. He waved a hand for silence, then said, “A strange coincidence indeed, but… This did not have the feel of an executed plan. I’m sure the thief didn’t plan to be caught attempting to take back his ka. You said yourself that he did not flee into the desert at first, but was forced out of the city by your men. To time it such that he could board the same bus…” The Pharaoh leaned forward, the Sennen Puzzle hanging heavy from his neck. “The rest of you, what do you think?”

There was a brief silence before Kalim, the priest who held the Sennen Scales, said in a low voice, “I believe a boy should be much easier to find, my Pharaoh. If he does know anything about the thief Bakura’s plans, we may be able to turn him to our advantage.” The others nodded and murmured assent, except for Isis, who remained stony faced and silent.

“Isis?” the Pharaoh said, turning a little in his seat to face her. She looked up at him, but even Mahaado could see that she would not fully meet his eyes. “Can you see anything?”

“No, my Pharaoh,” Isis murmured, fingers brushing over the Sennen Tauk about her neck. “Nothing at all. Only shadows.”

The Pharaoh frowned and returned to pensive silence. Mahaado tried to catch Isis’ eye, but she was intently looking at nothing again. He wondered if the Pharaoh knew what he and at least a couple of the other priests were already aware of: the boy who was now in the company of the thief Bakura was also Isis’ brother. It was an open secret, but it seemed that Seth and possibly Akhenaten and Shaadah knew nothing of it. Of all the priests, Seth was the most likely to try and exploit such a connection, but he hadn’t brought it up. Mahaado himself would never speak of it openly. He knew something of Isis’ family history and the connection wouldn’t open any doors to him, while exposing it would be a source of shame for Isis.

“I need some time to consider our options,” the Pharaoh said at last, starting to rise from his seat. “If that is all, I will dismiss the meeting.” The priests all briskly rose to their feet and bowed as their king stood, then filed out of the throne room – Isis swiftest to the door and out of sight – but the Pharaoh dawdled a moment by his throne, and Mahaado remained on bended knee.

Seth sneered at Mahaado as he descended the steps and passed by, and Mahaado felt his temper bristle. Control, that was what it came down to; he was in control. He had mastered himself. Seth could not touch him. They were on equal footing, and as much as Seth coveted Mahaado’s position as captain of the guard, they both knew the Pharaoh would never grant it to him. He let his breathing return to normal, Seth swept from the room without comment, and Mahaado was then alone with his Pharaoh.

There was a silence that went a bit too long, and then Mahaado rose and climbed the steps to the throne, where he again fell to one knee. “I am truly sorry, my Pharaoh. I have failed you.”

“You know I do not blame you, my friend,” Atemu said gently, resting a hand on Mahaado’s shoulder and squeezing. “Your judgment is not ruled by bloodlust or glory. If letting the thief go saved that boy’s life, then your decision was the right one.”

“Unless it was a trick, my Pharaoh. Unless my pity was played—“ Mahaado said, his passions flaring again.

“You do not hold the Eye, Priest Mahaado,” Atemu said, more firmly this time. “I would not expect you to know for certain what was going through that boy’s mind, or the thief’s. Nor would I expect you to go against your better judgment. Now get up.”

The last words were accompanied by a firm tug on his shoulder, and Mahaado rose obediently. He looked down at his Pharaoh, and saw that he was smiling.

“And this will be at least the thousandth time I’ve asked you to call me by my name,” Atemu said.

Mahaado felt his face heat up, and there was a rushing feeling in his stomach as his emotions got the better of him again. “You know it is improper, Phara—Atemu—” He cut off abruptly; embarrassment had put all of his senses on hyper-alert, and he now clearly heard the sound of someone moving nearby. He threw his arm around Atemu, pulling him into a protective hold. “Who’s there?”

Silence was all that met him, but as Mahaado continued to stare intently around the room, there was an awkward shuffling of feet and then a nervous chuckle as a girl peeked out from behind a large stone pillar.

“Hi Atemu, Mahaado. Um. Just—on my way to the bathroom,” the girl said with a weak laugh, then a wince as Mahaado glowered at her.

“Mana! How long have you been hiding there?” he demanded, his grip slackening. He glanced down and was only more embarrassed by the rather pleased expression on Atemu’s face.

Mana grinned, tracing a circle on the floor with her foot. “I, uhm—not long?”

“So you’ve been here the entire time,” Mahaado sighed, touching his temple in irritation. Atemu laughed and walked over to Mana, patting her head fondly.

“Don’t be so hard on her, Mahaado. Someday she might be sitting up there with us. I think we can forgive her just this once?” He turned his head to smile at Mahaado. Mahaado exhaled heavily, folding his arms.

“This is the third time this month she’s snuck in here when she was specifically told to stay out. Your magic is meant to be used for protecting the Pharaoh, Mana, not for making yourself invisible so you can sneak into places you’re forbidden from.”

Mana waved a hand at him, laughing again. “Ah, I know, I know, teacher! But you were the one who told me to practice my magic more, and—” She stopped abruptly and jumped behind Atemu as Mahaado’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Now Mahaado, you look like you’re about to eat her,” Atemu said with another laugh, and Mahaado sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Mana, return to your studies,” he said, and Mana leapt forward, clicked her heels together, and saluted.

“On my way, teacher!” she said with a grin, then ran out of the room before Mahaado could reprimand her further. Mahaado sighed and rubbed his forehead– between the thief wreaking havoc at every opportunity and his student seemingly intent on doing the opposite of everything he said, Mahaado was starting to get a permanent headache.

“You’re going to give yourself wrinkles, Mahaado.” Atemu walked back over to him and reached up to take his hand away from his head. Atemu smiled and Mahaado tried to smile back, but it felt stretched on his face.

“Yes, my Ph—” He was silenced by Atemu’s hand now on his lips, before it slid across his cheek and behind his head, drawing him downwards.

“Mahaado,” Atemu murmured, eyes bright, “we’ve known each other since we were children. Is it really so hard to use my name, even when we’re alone?”

Mahaado hesitated, the blush returning to his cheeks as he felt his king’s lips hover near his own. He wanted to point out that they had not, moments before, been alone, that it was impossible to ever be sure they were alone, that all eyes followed the Pharaoh, for he was god—

“It’s not my place,” he said at last, not daring to speak above a whisper.

“One of these days,” Atemu breathed, “You’ll believe me when I tell you how little I think of the separation between us.” He pulled gently, rising onto his toes so their lips could meet, and Mahaado said nothing more.

* * *

“So this is your big plan?” Malik said as he flopped back on one of the beds, wincing as he received a jab in the back from an exposed spring in return.

“What?” Bakura said distractedly. He was crouching over the floor, emptying the contents of a small bag onto the carpet. Bright jewelry fell and rolled in every direction.

“Run back to the Pharaoh’s capitol as if we didn’t just leave here? Hide out in a hotel until the end of our days?” Malik continued, rolling onto his side to face Bakura with his head propped on his hand. “What if the hotel owner sells us out to the Pharaoh’s guard?”

“Oh, he would, in a heartbeat,” Bakura said casually.

“Well, then—”

“Which is why,” Bakura interrupted, glancing up at Malik, “I already bought him out for more than the Pharaoh would ever be willing to reward a measly hotel owner like him.” Bakura pawed through the small pile of wealth on the floor, carefully separating out necklaces, rings, and other assorted pieces likely worth more than the entire street they were hiding in.

“Everything and everyone can be bought,” Bakura continued, “and when you’re on the run, your money’s best spent making sure the people you meet along the way keep their mouths shut.”

“That, or shut it permanently for them,” Malik said dryly.

“Now you’re catching on.”

Malik groaned softly, falling back on the mattress. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “Gone from respectable guard to bribing back-alley hotel owners in less than a month. Rishid’s going to _kill_ me.”

“Rishid?” Bakura said.

“My brother,” Malik sighed. “Well, adopted brother. More like a parent. If he finds out about this, I may never see sunlight again.”

Bakura chuckled softly, and Malik glanced over at him. The thief was now sitting on the bed, exchanging some of the jewelry on his person for the pieces he’d pulled from the bag. Malik almost wanted to laugh as Bakura tried on a sparkling red ring.

“So he’s family,” Bakura said, admiring the jewel.

“What’s left of it,” Malik said. “Along with a sister who’s as good as vanished from our lives.”

Bakura didn’t reply; he scooped up the rest of the jewelry and shoved it back into the satchel, tying it off and tossing it carelessly into a corner. The bag burst open when it hit the floor and two gold rings clattered out and rolled noisily into a corner, and once again, Malik had to bite back an absurd laugh.

But Bakura wasn’t paying attention to the bag. “I need to get out of these clothes,” he muttered, plucking at his linen robes with a scowl. “Some king I am, out looking like an old-world commoner.”

Malik thought it was probably better to look like a commoner when hiding from certain death, but he had to admit that he also could use a change of clothes. They had wandered the desert for an interminable amount of time to lose any trackers following from the bus, then beelined back for the capitol, where both of them had originally started from. Not to mention the time spent wandering back alleys in search of this hotel. Malik was prepared to scrub his skin raw after all that. He sighed, rolled onto his side, and tried to decide what the worst was he might find in the washing facilities of a hotel like this, when a dirty linen shirt caught him around the head.

“Daydreaming is bad for your health,” Bakura said as he got up from the bed. Malik wrenched the shirt off again with an growl that trailed off as he found himself staring right at everything the thief had to offer, standing boldly before him with nothing on but that stupid grin and the jewelry. Of course, Bakura had left the jewelry on.

It had only been a short time since the jail, and Bakura had been mostly naked then, too. But something about seeing the full display after a month of better eating, in proper lighting, and without the imminent feeling of despair and death all around—Malik scowled and flung the shirt back at Bakura, hitting him in the chest. “Get dressed then, you idiot.”

Bakura laughed and turned away, heading over to his bags, which were resting against the wall. Malik’s eyes followed him, and he felt the tension in his stomach twist in a new direction when he saw a faded patchwork of scars marring the skin of Bakura’s back. In particular, a series of whip scars jogged from his right shoulder to left hip in irregular stripes of stark white. There was a sudden rushing in Malik’s ears and his throat felt tight ( _get away, get away, get away now_ ). He rose and nearly bolted for the bathroom without looking back.

Bakura listened until he heard the click of the bathroom lock. Then he straightened, waited a few moments more, and when the shower finally started running, he walked to Malik’s bag instead. He rifled through the things inside: a thick dark cloak, a couple of sets of clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a few other personal belongings of some worthless sentimental value. Bakura’s fingers wormed into the pockets until they found what felt like paper, and he carefully worked it out of the pocket it was wedged in.

It was an old photograph, worn slightly at the edges, but distinct; on it, Malik was standing beside two figures: a tall, well-built man with some sort of scar over half of his face, and a woman whom Bakura recognized well.

He chuckled, holding the photo up to the light and gazing at it with a twisted smile.

“Family, huh?”


	4. Cat's Delicacy

Isis was in the palace gardens when Mahaado found her, staring at an obelisk that stood in the center of artfully arranged plants, with bursting, colorful flowers and towering green ferns and trees. There wasn’t much plant-life that grew strong in Egypt, but the palace gardens always bloomed, and it didn’t take a magician of Mahaado’s caliber to sense the magic that was employed to keep it that way. The soil was kept fertile and flowering against its will.

“The Pharaoh’s brother returns today from America,” Mahaado said as he approached. “Pharaoh will be looking for you soon to hear portends of Yugi’s arrival.”

“Tell him they are all good,” Isis replied in a distracted tone without looking up at him.

“Isis.” Mahaado touched her shoulder, first lightly, then more firmly to turn her towards him. “Pharaoh will notice eventually if you keep like this. And even I cannot conceal the truth forever. How many have seen your family in this palace over the years? Someone will speak.”

Isis looked up at Mahaado, but her eyes seemed to wander away from his face, as if looking at something in the distance over his shoulder. “I have seen,” she said softly, “what is to come. The many paths that all lead—” Abruptly, her eyes focused in on his with a deep intensity. “The darkness. There is something there. His eyes live on in the dark.”

Mahaado gazed into Isis’ eyes for a brief silence, and then took her other shoulder as well. “Breathe with me,” he said softly. “And banish the visions.”

Isis seemed to deflate slightly in his grip, but slowly, reluctantly, she drew deep breaths with him, and closed her eyes. With a great effort, and a shuddering breath, she drew herself back up to full height, and when she opened her eyes again, her gaze was clear and focused. “Thank you.”

“How long have you been lost in these visions?” Mahaado said firmly, not releasing his grip. “This kind of power—it could consume you if you aren’t careful. What were you focusing on?”

Isis’ eyes flickered away, suddenly guilty, back to the obelisk, and Mahaado knew his answer. He released her, though his fingers lingered on her shoulder and down her arm in silent apology.

“He used to come here,” she said softly, drawing her arms around herself. “Before he was old enough to work, when he would follow me or Rishid to training, he would hide away here. He said he liked this obelisk best because he liked Ra better as a man than a bird or sun.” She broke off with a little, choked laugh and then covered her face in her hand. “And now I see nothing in his future, nothing but darkness in every path.”

The little hitch in Isis’ voice made Mahaado’s throat tighten, and he wasn’t sure what he should do. Holding her again felt like he was treading too much on their friendship, but there was little he could say to give her hope. What she saw with the Sennen Tauk was unfailingly accurate, and wishes and hopes did not change the future.

He found his eyes drawn up to the obelisk as well. It depicted an early pharaoh, one of the first in their recorded history, making contact with the god Ra – first in the form of a man and then in the form of the great winged bird who would forever serve the line of pharaohs whenever Egypt required him. Ra and the other gods had joined with the pharaohs from that first meeting, taught them the power of magic and the beasts of their souls, and from that, Egypt was born in its true and permanent form. The Pharaoh’s name had been lost to time – perhaps a sacrifice to the gods who bonded with his soul – but Egypt still lived on in his image.

Mahaado wondered what a young boy from outside the palace had seen in this obelisk. For Mahaado, he inevitably felt the sense of wonder that came with the understanding that the same sun walking above in the sky was always close enough to burn his cheeks red and fill his world with light, and could even flow through his magic and guide his king. The gods were forever reaching out to their people, close enough to touch.

He stepped closer to Isis and drew an arm around her, pulling her gently in. “There can be no darkness while the Pharaoh and the gods watch over Egypt,” he said. “Even for your brother, the sun will still find him, and the light.”

* * *

When Malik emerged from the shower some time later, a towel around his waist and another over his shoulders, he found Bakura dozing on one of the beds. Bakura had changed his clothes and was now dressed in a dark waistcloth and a deep red jacket that, upon closer inspection, looked remarkably like the tattered and torn one Bakura had left in the prison, but brand new. Malik briefly entertained the idea that Bakura had a secret supply of custom-made, identical jackets, but when he found his eyes and thoughts wandering, he abruptly turned away to find his own clothes.

His possessions were single-digit at this point – two of his bags had been left behind on the bus, and only his satchel, kept securely on his shoulder throughout the bus ride in case of pickpockets, had managed to survive his kidnapping. He had a few necessities, but he would have to remember to buy some more clothes the first chance he got. Climbing back into his jeans, which had survived the desert trip very reluctantly, was an unpleasant experience.

Once he was dressed, Malik walked over to the window to let in some air. He pushed against the stubborn wooden shutters until, with a low groan, they gave out, opening sharply and sending a shower of dust into the air. Malik coughed sharply and waved the dust away – so much for getting clean. And the now-open window looked out onto nothing but a back alley, with a view of the mud-brick walls of the building across from him, all the windows shut tight. Malik’s chest tightened with a sudden, claustrophobic feeling; nowhere to go, and no one to see him, no one to save him from this place.

“Let’s go get a drink.”

Malik jumped and cursed in surprise at the voice in his ear; then, with a delayed panic, he grabbed the towel around his shoulders and pulled it tight. He turned to face Bakura, who was standing so close that he could feel their shared heat, and yet Malik hadn’t even heard him get up. He made a mental note to always remain clothed around Bakura in the future. “Don’t do that!”

Bakura chuckled, taking a step back. “You startle easily, guard,” he said.

“I have a name,” Malik muttered.

“Malik, then,” Bakura said. “How about that drink?”

Malik hesitated, trying to find the trick—but a drink meant outside and people and possibly escape. “Fine,” he said. “But you’re paying.”

Bakura laughed again, ruffled Malik’s wet hair, and then turned and walked over to where he had thrown the bag of stolen jewelry earlier, picking out a few gems. Malik watched him, suddenly feeling more annoyed than anxious. He rubbed the ruffle back out of his hair. He couldn’t tell what Bakura wanted from him now, except perhaps as an object to tease, but at the very least Bakura would pay for the drinks while Malik figured it out.

* * *

 Jounouchi didn’t think of himself as overprotective of his little sister; she was free to hang out with her friends, work her day-job to help pay rent, and then come home promptly before dark. But some things were just too much for any brother to bear, and the top of that list had to include slick-haired sleazeballs and purported best friends making googly eyes at her _while he watched_. His arm was already sore from reaching across their shared table to wrangle his supposed-friend Honda’s neck every time it started to swivel her way, and Otogi—well, it wasn’t Jou’s fault Otogi leaned way too far back in his chair to sweet-talk her as she passed by. You’d think he’d learn after the third time he fell over backwards trying—Jounouchi’s foot had nothing to do with it.

“Everything okay here, boys?” Mai had sauntered over to their table from the bar with a fresh pitcher of beer; as she leaned over to put it on their table and take the empty one, Jou loosened his grip on Honda’s neck long enough to grin at her. She had her long hair tied back tonight, and she smiled at him bemusedly.

“All good here – unless you could let my sis’ off work early, so she can go _home_ ,” Jou said, shooting a furtive glance to where his sister was waiting another table nearby.

“Or to my hotel,” Otogi chipped in. “Some room service, a night in—ow!” There was a clatter and crash as he pitched sideways off his chair. This time, Jou left his foot on top of the chair, glowering at him. “It was a _joke_ ,” Otogi said.

“The hell it was,” Jou growled, then turned a pleading look to Mai, who laughed and shrugged.

“Sorry Jou, she’s on shift for another hour. We’re pretty busy tonight, can’t spare the help. But you boys behave. You’re turning the poor boy’s hair grey.” She leaned over Honda to ruffle Jou’s hair, and Honda turned bright red and averted his eyes. Jounouchi grinned sheepishly, but he felt his own face heat up as well when her fingers lingered a little at his ear. She withdrew and sauntered back to the bar without a second glance, and Jou quickly busied himself pouring another drink.

“You heard the lady,” he said. “I’m getting tired of kicking the crap out of you anyway. Let me drink in peace.” Otogi and Honda both resettled in their chairs with a distinctly deflated air, but the prospect of more beer distracted them for a moment.

Jounouchi scoped the room one more time over the edge of his glass. Shizuka had migrated to clear off a table at the other end of the room, and was thankfully alone for the time being. The Cat’s Delicacy was surprisingly crowded for so early in the evening, and there were plenty of people and plenty of noise to separate Shizuka from them, but of course, that also made it harder for Jou to keep an eye on all the _other_ patrons while he was at it. Honda and Otogi weren’t the first to try and _seduce_ her of late. Since Shizuka had reached marrying age (too damn early), she’d had half a dozen marriage proposals, and at least twice as many _indecent_ proposals, at least that Jou was aware of. Sometimes he suspected she didn’t tell him every time it happened—something about a few black eyes and broken ribs, she claimed.

If only all of them could be solved that easily. Jou’s eyes slid over to Otogi, who had pulled out his cell phone for the fifth time to try and find a signal and, for the fifth time, failed. He wasn’t the sort you could just beat up—he was a _consequences_ type of guy, if only because he was rich enough to make big trouble for them if he wanted. Plus he was Yugi’s guest, and Jou at least owed Yugi a scrap of self-control.

And _Honda_ —well, Honda was supposed to be _his_ friend, since _toddlers_ , and hell, Shizuka was almost as much Honda’s sister as she was Jou’s, but apparently the minute she got a chest, brotherhood went to hell. And it was _really_ starting to piss Jou off.

“Wherever you plan to escort me next, it had better have a cell tower on top of it,” Otogi grumbled as he repocketed his cell phone. “You’d think this whole damn country was off the grid for all the signal I get here.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure no one’s panicking to get a hold of you,” Honda muttered into his glass, earning a dagger-sharp glare from Otogi that quickly morphed into snide smirk.

“As charming as expected. Do you treat all of the Pharaoh’s guests this way?” he said.

“You ain’t the Pharaoh’s guest, you’re Yugi’s,” Jou cut in. “And they both happen to be our friends—more than you are—so we’ll treat you as we damn well like. Drink up.”

Otogi exhaled loudly through his nose, but did as he was told, and then arranged himself to watch Shizuka sidle between nearby tables. “Really, how can such an angel come from the same family as a backwards country dog?” he said, as if to himself, but loud enough for Jou to hear.

“What did you call me?” Jounouchi snapped, slamming a hand on the table as he moved to rise, but he halted as Otogi swiveled to him, pointing a finger right between Jou’s eyes. _Consequences_. Right. Otogi smirked lazily.

“Sit, Mr. Guard Dog,” he said. Jou sat. Then Jou casually jerked his foot up and kicked the underside of the table hard beneath Otogi’s mug, jostling it and sloshing the contents out onto Otogi’s lap. Otogi jumped up with a curse, and Jou smirked.

“Oops.”

* * *

“Here’s your beer, boys.” Mai set down a full pitcher on the table in front of Malik and Bakura, and then leaned in a little towards Malik, so close he could smell her perfume. “You want anything stronger, you can give Anzu a shout, okay, sweetheart?” She nodded towards a tall brunette who was walking by, then winked at Malik and left, but not before giving Bakura a slight nod as well. Malik stared after her.

“Damn,” he muttered, tearing his eyes away from her retreating form to trail after the other girl she’d pointed out, Anzu. “I must have died and we’ve gone to the Fields.”

“Can’t imagine I’d have you as a bunk buddy in the Fields,” Bakura said with a snicker, pouring his beer.

“Can’t imagine you at the Fields at all,” Malik muttered under his breath. He grabbed the pitcher away from Bakura, but not before one last lingering look over his shoulder. The Cat’s Delicacy had been Bakura’s choice of bar, and it occurred to Malik now that it was probably a deliberate one. Their waitress had clearly recognized Bakura, so perhaps it was something of a safehouse for criminals and miscreants. Looking around at the people crowded around tables and clustered near the bar, Malik had a hard time imagining they could all be part of some insane guild of thieves and cutthroats – some of them looked very nearly respectable. But then again, there weren’t many who wore their colors as boldly as Bakura.

As Malik was looking around, one of the men at a table behind him leapt up, cursing in English and yelling at one of his companions – the sudden movement made Malik jump, his heart stuttering in his chest. He suddenly realized how tightly wound he was now that they were outside, in public. He felt like an exposed nerve, waiting to be set off, waiting to be caught. He hunched back over his beer and glanced at Bakura, but Bakura seemed completely at ease, which unsurprisingly did nothing to help Malik.

“Hey, Bakura, are we—are we safe here?”

“What’s safe?” Bakura answered over his glass.

“What—safe is _safe_ ,” Malik hissed, leaning in. “Safe is out of danger. Away from trouble. No more kidnappings or knocking me unconscious.”

“Oh.” Bakura grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Then yes. I probably won’t have to knock you unconscious.”

Malik made an exasperated noise in his throat, and he reached over to clap a hand over Bakura’s glass before he could lift it for another drink. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Are we _safe_?”

The grin slid away. Bakura met Malik’s gaze, and Malik shrank back a bit with the intensity of it. “You’re with a wanted criminal,” Bakura said, slowly, quietly. “You are a wanted criminal. We are in the Pharaoh’s city, in the Pharaoh’s country, in the Pharaoh’s world. Safe is not a promise I can make, not ever.”

Bakura pulled his glass away from Malik’s hand, drained it, and then said, more lightly, “Not to mention two of the Pharoah’s guards sitting at that table over there.”

Malik’s stomach dropped to his shoes. The back of his skull went cold, and he had to fiercely resist the urge to turn around and look at the place behind him where Bakura was staring. “What?” he hissed.

“Two of them. I don’t recognize the third, but judging from the tone, he’s an American. Why an American, I wonder…” Bakura reached for the pitcher to fill his glass, but Malik’s hand shot out to grab his wrist.

“ _What_ ,” he hissed. His blood was pounding in his ears, and Bakura was looking at him with a vaguely surprised expression.

“What?”

“ _What do we do_.”

Something in Malik’s face seemed to perturb Bakura, and for just a moment, something close to worry crossed his features. But then he lifted his other hand to flag down the waitress Anzu, saying, “How about we get something to eat?”

* * *

“Hey. Hey, Jounouchi.” Honda reached over the table to tug insistently at Jounouchi’s sleeve, his eyes locked on something across the room from them.

“What, what?” Jounouchi snapped, swiveling back from where he’d been scouring the room again for Shizuka.

“Didn’t our captain’s report on that thief they’re looking for have something about him having a scar and hanging out with a blond guy?”

“Man, no one reads those reports,” Jounouchi said, swatting Honda’s hand away.

“Everyone reads them except you, Jounouchi,” Honda said. “But, that’s not the point, look.” He pointed insistently across the room at the pair of people ordering something from Anzu. Jounouchi’s eyes widened; he didn’t recognize the smaller of the two, but the taller, his red jacket standing out starkly, looked almost exactly like the wanted poster that had been shoved in his team’s face while his captain prattled on about responsibility to the Pharaoh and dangerous criminals.

“Fuck.” Jounouchi rose to his feet sharply, and Honda quickly followed suit. Otogi turned to stare at the men at the table with interest, twirling a lock of hair.

“Hmm, a thief who hangs out in the same bar as the Pharaoh’s guards?” he said. “How lucky for you. Maybe he wants to be arrested.”

“Shut up,” Jounouchi snapped. “You stay here. We’ll be back.”

“Try to do more than just yap at their ankles, won’t you?”

“You asshole—“ Jou started to growl, but Honda cut him off, grabbed the shoulder of his tunic.

“Enough. Now, Jou.”

Jounouchi bit his tongue and nodded. He and Honda drew their swords and began to walk towards the men at their table.

For a brief moment, Jounouchi felt a sudden elation rise in him. The men hadn’t even looked up at them yet. This was big. This was promotion big. This was big fat damn award big. This was an end to poverty and debt for him and for Shizuka—

And then somewhere in the jumble of eager joy, the man, that thief, looked straight at him like he was waiting for them, and that grin cut all of Jou’s elation to ribbons.

The next thing he remembered was the glass tankard, half-full of beer, that smashed into his nose.

“Run.” Bakura didn’t stumble, didn’t even hesitate. Before Malik could stammer out a reply, or even utter an exclamation as Bakura suddenly hurled his glass over Malik’s head, Malik was wrenched away from the table by his wrist and away. The guards had moved quickly to block the path to the door behind Bakura, one clutching a heavily bleeding nose with his free hand, but Bakura dodged to the side and then ran for the tables at the back of the bar.

There was a stage in the far corner next to the bar counter, and they hurtled towards it, pursued closely by the two guards who were shouting after them. All around them, the noisy chatter escalated to a roar as patrons suddenly realized—or didn’t—what was going on, and surged to get out of the way. People leapt out of chairs, knocking tables and food around, and Malik caught his shoulder and then the side of his face against people running the opposite direction, towards the door. But Bakura continued to half-lead, half-drag Malik towards the back, to what appeared to be a dead end between the stage and the bar.

And then he jogged left, and they were through a door and into what appeared to be a back hallway. The smell and sounds immediately told Malik that the kitchen was nearby, and there were several other doors along the hallway, but the one at the very end had daylight spilling through it, and that was where they were running towards.

A distinct click rose above the now muffled clatter and shouts from the bar, and Malik turned his head just in time to see the brunette – Anzu – turning a key in the lock of the door they’d fled through. She caught Malik’s glance and smiled, then held a finger to her lips as sudden, loud bangs erupted on the other side of the door, and then the unmistakeable sounds of the door being forced. Malik gaped as Anzu ducked through another door in the hallway and disappeared.

He had barely a moment to process all of this before another figure suddenly appeared to their right – a girl, another waitress, carrying an oversized tray of chicken wings out of the kitchen, nearly collided with them in their flight. Bakura spun to avoid her as she tottered backwards against the kitchen doors with the tray in her arms, and he nearly wrenched Malik’s wrist out of its socket pulling him along, but for the briefest moment as they hurtled past, Malik was certain he had seen Bakura sneak a few chicken wings from the tray with his free hand. And as they fell through the last door and into the sunlight, leaving the dazed waitress and the distinct cracking sound of wood giving way behind them, Malik once again felt a strange calm come over him in the absurdity of it all. Where did you hide stolen chicken wings in a waistcloth with no pockets?


	5. Fatal

It was several twisting back alleys and a few so-called shortcuts before Malik and Bakura made it back to their hotel room, although beyond the doors of the Cat’s Delicacy, no one had pursued them, or even seemed to notice them. Malik was gasping for breath by the time they made it up the stairs and stumbled into their room, but Bakura was laughing. He threw himself back onto the bed with a screech of springs, still chuckling to himself as if the whole affair had been some sort of giant joke.

“How’re you liking the thrill of the chase?” he said, grinning at Malik, who was clutching his chest and glaring daggers. “A little morning exercise?” Bakura reached into the sleeve of his jacket and pulled out a chicken wing. “You’ll get used to it,” he said as he bit down into the meat.

Malik stared, torn between incredulity and a rising fury—he wanted to swear, to throw something at Bakura, but all that came out, in a breathless squeak, was, “How did you even _keep_ those in there?”

Bakura raised his eyebrows at Malik, then reached back in for another wing with the first held in his teeth. He offered it to Malik, and when Malik didn’t take it, he removed the first from his mouth with his free hand, stripping the meat with his teeth.

“Rule one of traveling with me,” he said between chewing, “is take food when you can get it.” He waved the wing at Malik again, and Malik, still glowering, snatched it away.

“Not ‘avoid the bars where Pharaoh’s guards hang out’?” Malik said. “Not ‘get out of the Pharaoh’s capitol while you can’? Not ‘stay out of harm’s way for five seconds’?” His voice was pitching higher and higher, this time out of rising fury, and he shoved the wing in his mouth and bit down to stop from screaming—the sharp pain of his teeth meeting bone briefly distracted his attention.

“No,” Bakura replied slowly, his gaze now thoughtful as he twirled his mostly-picked bone between his fingers, ignoring Malik’s pained gestures. He grinned again. “Rule two is know where your exits are.”

Malik, his tooth throbbing, tried desperately to pummel Bakura with his glare alone. Then he stomped over to the other bed, sat down with his back pointedly turned, and tore through the rest of his chicken. As soon as he started eating, he realized how long he had gone without food, and suddenly having just a little made the empty ache of hunger more painful than when he’d had nothing. He reached out his hand to Bakura for another while still trying hard not to look at him. Bakura stared at the outreached hand and sighed, withdrawing another wing—the last—from his sleeve.

“We’ll get more food on our way out,” he said, rolling over on his bed so he could reach Malik’s hand – but not before he gave the wing a very deliberate lick. He grinned as he handed it off, but Malik took it and tore into it as quickly as the first, Bakura’s joke going disappointingly unnoticed.

After a few minutes of this, when Malik was sure he had picked the bones of their very last shreds, he turned enough to look at Bakura over his shoulder. “Out?” he said.

Bakura, who had rolled onto his back again and was now twisting a small bone between his teeth, glanced back at Malik as he said, “Somewhere safe.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Malik said, “No.”

“No what?”

“No.” Malik turned all the away around, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and folding his arms defiantly. “I’m done being dragged around like a dog on a leash, pulled through danger just because you think it’s funny. You’re going to tell me _where_ we’re going.”

Bakura looked surprised, and he stared at Malik for a few moments as if seeing him for the first time. But the grin crept back onto his face and he said, “One more story, then, guard?”

Malik raised an eyebrow, then nodded shortly. “Tell me.”

Bakura twisted up and sat on the edge of his bed, his knees touching Malik’s. “There is a place,” he said softly, conspiratorily, “where the dead tell tales. The Pharaoh cannot touch it, because it is the Pharaoh’s tales that are told, secrets whispered from beyond the grave. Anyone who trespasses there may hear the secret, and stay in safety—anyone, save for the Pharaoh and his men, who will go mad, for the words are darkness and they would destroy him.”

“Speak properly,” Malik snapped, breaking the hushed reverie of Bakura’s voice. Bakura had leaned in as he spoke, and now they were inches apart, staring at each other, and Malik was determined not to be the first to turn aside. “No more tall tales, just tell me straight: _where_ are you trying to take me?”

Bakura exhaled loudly and sat up, scowling as he said, “My home village. It’s a ghost town – no one will follow us there. Trust me.”

“Your home village? Where?”

“Halfway between here and somewhere else, what difference does it make?” Bakura grasped Malik’s knees and leaned in and Malik, despite his resolve, did recoil, falling backwards until Bakura was nearly crouched over him, so close Malik could nearly feel the rumble of his voice. “Either you trust me, guard, or you don’t. And I’ve saved you enough times that I’m unlikely to turn on you now—unless you keep pressing me.”

Malik didn’t reply, but resolutely maintained eye contact until Bakura withdrew and stood, holding out a hand to Malik.

“Now,” Bakura said, his expression serious, even grim. “Do you trust me?”

* * *

The blue jet glinted oddly in the sun, looking stark and out of place against the rolling sand dunes that spread out beyond the paved runway. They were only half a mile outside the palace walls, on the same runway that Seth used as well when the need for air travel arose, but Seth couldn’t help but feel that the jet stood out as a foreign and jarring interruption to his usual landscape.

Still, he wasn’t entirely displeased to see it land.

“Seth!” A young boy with a long mop of dark hair emerged from the jet first, barely waiting for the staircase to lower before he leapt to the ground and dashed towards the waiting priest. Seth waited a little distance away, and as the boy approached, a smile crept onto his face.

“Welcome back, Mokuba,” he said affectionately, kneeling to catching the running hug Mokuba threw at him. Mokuba laughed, then made a noise as his lip caught the edge of the metal breastplate attached to Seth’s robe.

“Ow! Your clothes are attacking me,” he laughed.

“You’ve gotten taller,” Seth said, drawing back with a quick check to Mokuba’s lip for blood. Then he smiled wider, using both hands to try and smooth down the ruffles in Mokuba’s hair. “And more hairy.”

“Rebecca likes it long ‘cause she says it makes me look like an American rock star!” Mokuba said with a grin, brushing his hair out of his eyes and grinning at Seth.

“Careful now, you get anymore American and they won’t let you come back here anymore,” Seth said. “Only Egyptians allowed around here, you know.”

Mokuba pouted, then grinned and grabbed Seth’s hand, tugging him backwards towards the plane. As Seth rose to follow, another set of feet emerged on the plane’s staircase, and Seth’s expression settled back into its usual stoicism as he watched the plane’s other occupant descend and approach him.

In fact, their expressions mirrored each other so exactly that, were it not for a billowing white coat and overly fitted black clothes that must have been all the rage in America, Seth might have thought he was looking in a mirror. But even his mirror had taste.

“Seto,” he said.

“Seth,” his twin replied.

They stood a few feet from each other now, with Mokuba in between, looking at them both with a mix of expectancy and impatience. Seth glanced down at Mokuba, pursed his lips, and then said, “How was America?”

“Thriving,” Seto replied.

“As is Egypt.”

“Not from what I hear. Foreign relations nightmare.”

“Our defenses are solid and our people are strong, as you might remember.”

“I remember the thirty-percent poverty rate, certainly, though I’m sure following in that man’s footsteps keeps you above all that.”

Seth broke the standstill with half a step forward, his shoulders tense. “Don’t speak ill of Father.”

Seto smirked faintly. “Your father, not mine.”

“He is blood. And unlike the man who adopted you, he is your true father.”

“At least Gozaburo had the decency to die when he was no longer needed.”

“Leaving you wealthy and arrogant.”

“More than _that_ man ever left me—or any of us.” This time Seto took a step forward, his last words a growl. “Need I remind you _why_ we went to America?”

Seth hesitated, opening his mouth and then closing it tightly. “He is,” he said at last, “trying to make amends. He tells me he writes you often. He is changing.”

“He’s wearing you down,” Seto snapped. “And he will be dead long before I consider forgiving him.”

Seth scowled and began to retort, but was suddenly interrupted by Mokuba’s hand shooting up into the air between them. “Time!” Mokuba declared, holding up his cell phone in his other hand. “That’s five minutes of family bonding. Time for a break.” He grabbed Seto’s hand, and began to pull him in the direction of the small car flanked by guards that was to take them back to the palace. “Come on, let’s go see if Yugi’s around—get you inside now that you’ve had your five minutes of yearly sunshine.”

Seth watched as Seto and Mokuba walked away from him, Mokuba still chatting at top-speed—and then he slowly released the breath he’d been holding, letting the angry tension in his chest loosen a bit. Mokuba glanced back at Seth over his shoulder, still talking, but jerking his head in a way that clearly said Seth had better come along. It was the unspoken language they’d mastered over the years. Mokuba knew very well how to artfully diffuse arguments between the twins without redirecting that anger onto himself, and he was right, too—five minutes was all any of them could handle.

* * *

Bakura left the hotel room at dusk to find food and reliable transportation for the journey. Malik had started to make a bid for something other than horses this time (motorcycles had zipped through his mind when he realized money was no object), but it didn’t take long for Bakura to convince him that the only thing besides horses that could get through the desert and where they were going without a fuel stop along the way were camels, and so Malik dropped it. He opted not to tag along for the supply run, citing a surplus of adventure already, and he sensed somehow that Bakura preferred it that way. However Bakura planned on getting these supplies—whatever vendor was open past dusk—it seemed Bakura wanted to do it alone.

And so Malik was left in the quiet hotel room for a while, rolling back and forth on the squeaky mattress until he felt queasy and then staring at the slivers of orange sunset coming in through once-again-closed shutters. He would have to get up and turn on the light soon, but lying there, the energy left him. Realizations were settling over him. He could never go home again. He might never see his family again, and he had no idea what he would do to survive tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, the day after that.

_Do you trust me?_

Malik closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. Trust? He was still hoping this whole thing was a long nightmare, that Bakura was some horrible figment of too long without proper air in the prison underground. That he could still wake up.

But he knew—or the more reasonable part of him knew—that he had to make plans. He had to make sure he survived tomorrow, and the day after that. He still didn’t know where Bakura was taking him, a choice that was likely deliberate, but he could at least make sure he could be found. He rose slowly, renewed by this thought and the fact that he had to work before Bakura returned. Because, deep down, he felt certain it was Bakura who didn’t trust _him_.

He fetched out his bag and muttered a half-thanks to Bes, god of luck, as he found a stray piece of parchment and his charcoal pencils jammed beneath his clothing. He always meant to write letters, even if he never did. He always meant to do a lot of things.

Crouched over on the floor, unwilling to get up and find the light in his sudden frantic hurry, he scrawled his short message in hieratic, struggling in some places to remember the right symbols. It had been a long time since he’d had to write this way, trying to remember the backwards-forwards code he had been taught to write for his private family letters, but really, it didn’t matter what the message said. The message was in the choice he made to write it.

Understanding nonsense like this was why Malik had never done better than average in any magic aptitude tests, but as long as he didn’t think too hard on it, he grasped the general idea.

A few folds and tucks closed up the letter—he didn’t have his seal anymore, so he had to scrawl the family crest over the folded closure before turning it over to write the address. He hoped—gods, he didn’t even know anymore—that the crest would get the letter noticed. That it would wind up in the right hands because a scribe understood what it meant. He could find a mail carrier to leave it with before they left town, but from there—

_Do you trust me?_

Malik didn’t trust Fate. Whatever path he walked, whatever god was leading him onward, the best Malik could do was hope that they would not impede this one safety net. Because while a part of him did trust Bakura—the part that had first fumbled for the keys in that cell—he could not escape the overbearing doubts lingering over his shoulder, pressing down, making him question why he wanted to.


	6. Prophet

After the thrill of his first day in Egypt, Otogi wasn’t sure much else could have surprised him. He’d expected the sun, the heat, the many guards and escorts and suspicious glances. But after a lightly guarded excursion for lunch turned into an open brawl between his bodyguards and some maniac in a red coat, Otogi’s expectations for this trip had gone out the window. Even in his mental notes for Mr. Crawford, he was running out of ways to kindly imply ‘utter madness’ and ‘diplomatic nightmare’.

He’d just thought to take a few pictures of the trashed bar he was left standing in—that part of his phone, at least, still worked here—when his so-called bodyguards returned, looking like sweaty, angry pictures of failure.

“He escaped then?” Otogi called as they approached. Was his tone snide? His Coptic wasn’t fluent yet, but he felt he had at least mastered well-placed sarcasm—though it didn’t take much to send the blond guard snapping and pulling at the leash.

“Yes,” the blond one bit out.

“We’ve put men on the search,” said the brunet, “and we’re going back to the palace. We must inform the Pharaoh and the captain that he’s still in town. Probably in hiding somewhere.” The two guards exchanged a look that suggested they were mentally dueling for the honor of that task. Otogi almost felt less secure now that they had returned.

* * *

They traveled to the palace by horse-drawn cart, an anachronism so striking that Otogi wondered if Egypt had only just retired the litter as a common mode of transport. The spectacle was humiliating. He was flanked by his guards in a cart that barely held the three of them standing. The blond one forced the horses to maneuver them through overcrowded streets while he spat out curses at people and animals alike, and all of this was made worse by the obvious fact that no one else was commuting in such _privilege_. Otogi very nearly climbed out and insisted on walking back; however, by that point his clothes were soaked with sweat, and it hardly seemed worth the effort. At least the horses kept a fair pace, once the crowd finally shifted. Instead, Otogi spent the rest of the ride back resenting whatever was convenient—mostly the blond and his language _right in Otogi’s ear_ —and trying to remember what value Mr. Crawford saw in this country in the first place.

He had seen a car in Egypt, briefly but definitely. It had taken him from the Pharaoh’s private jet to the palace, a trip that had distinctly lacked crowds, yelling, or direct sunlight. Was the Pharaoh the only one with a car in all of Egypt? What technology could Mr. Crawford possible hope to bring here that wouldn’t seem like—well, like a lighter to a cave-man? As always, Mr. Crawford’s intentions were inscrutable even at the best of times, but they had never yet been as outlandish as trying to save a place like this.

The crowds thinned as the cart pulled away from the clustered homes and shops of the Pharaoh’s city and towards the palace. The straight open road out oft the city dead-ended into a set of stone stairs, which then climbed four stories up and through the palace walls. The architect had clearly meant to send a message about where the people stood against their Pharaoh—or perhaps just had an obsession with good cardio.

Otogi climbed down from the cart when they stopped at the base of the stairs. His two guards exchanged quiet words, and then the brunet took the cart and led it away from the stairs towards another side of the palace; presumably where they also kept a garage with space for exactly one (1) car. The blond stayed behind, leading Otogi up the massive stone steps with barely repressed smugness written all over his face. As if watching Otogi’s first journey up these interminable steps after the car ride hadn’t been enough.

“It helps if you lift your legs higher,” the blond called down to him when he was halfway up the steps.

“Quiet,” Otogi snapped—about the best he could do in a breathless gasp. Sweat was in his eyes now. He could feel it sliding down the small of his back under his suit, a Saint Laurent that had fit him perfectly six hours ago. He was starting to wonder if this whole trip was some kind of punishment—had he offended Mr. Crawford in some way? Had he forgotten a sensitive document on the printer, hesitated a moment too long before searching for the Collected Features of Funny Bunny to stream live during lunch yet again?

At the top of the stairs, they passed through the great gates and walked down a heavily guarded path to a wide doorway that stood open. Through this doorway, they were inside the palace itself, and as Otogi’s eyes adjusted from the blinding desert sun outside to the softly lit interior, he couldn’t help but stare once again at the scene around him.

A veranda opened onto enormous halls filled with people, and staircases that led to other wings of the palace (the first innovation for Mr. Crawford to introduce to the Egyptian people: the elevator). All around them, men and women were dressed as if they had stepped out of a film: robes, jewelry, headdresses, the works. Even the most simply dressed still wore robes, and some with shaved heads were carrying _scrolls_ (second innovation: the printing press).

Again, Otogi itched to pull out his phone, to record the strange, out-of-time experience of walking through the Pharaoh’s palace. The only thing that kept him from doing so was the lengthy Non-Disclosure Agreement he had signed before entering the country; his report was for Mr. Crawford only, and could not be recorded in any shareable way. But the urge was hard to resist. Outside, the people of Egypt had been introduced to jeans and t-shirts at some point in the last thousand years, but inside, where the higher classes worked and lived, Otogi felt like the producer on an expansive and minutely detailed movie set.

His guard led him through the winding maze of halls and up several more flights of stairs before they reached a door flanked by another two guards. The blond one spoke briefly to them, then turned to Otogi.

“Yugi’s inside. These two will escort you while I go and…deal with things.”

“Yes, yes, go fetch your thief in red,” Otogi said, scrutinizing the other guards: two middle-aged men, well-built and staring at the wall in the very picture of duty. They did not even react when he spoke—no fun at all, which meant they might actually be competent guards. The blond one snarled, but let the bait lie and stomped off in a huff.

“Jou?” came a voice at the door behind the guards, and it opened to reveal the peering face of the Pharaoh’s brother, Yugi. At once, Otogi smoothed his expression into a graceful smile and bowed.

“Just departed, sir,” Otogi said. “Some work to attend to.”

“Oh!” Yugi’s face brightened, and once again Otogi had to reprimand himself for seeing a young, enthusiastic child beaming up at him. Yugi was 19, well past adulthood by this country’s standards, and he was both a diplomat and a royal heir—but the urge to pat Yugi on the head and feed him cake was strangely irresistable. “In that case, shall we go and see my brother?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Otogi replied, mentally adding a sigh of _finally_. He had come here with a purpose, not to get sidetracked in bars with idiots.

“Sure, sure. Ummm.” Yugi patted his clothes – he was back to robes again, shorter and clearly more informal than some of the others worn around the palace, but a far cry from the outfits Yugi had favored in America. “Let me just…” he mumbled, doubling back into his room. Through the partially open door, Otogi could see stacks of games climbing the walls. Mostly board games and, Otogi noted for his mental log, more than a few Crawford games.

“Ready.” Yugi ducked out again, shoving some cards into a pouch at his hip. A quick glance—Otogi recognized them. Good.

* * *

 

Walking through the palace with royalty was a distinctly different experience. The youngest of those they passed would scramble to get out of the way, pressing themselves face-first against walls until Yugi and Otogi were well past them. The older children and adults would often do the same, but with the casual ease of experience, and the oldest, those in the nicest robes, would simply bow until they had gone by. No one made eye-contact, not even a glance.

Otogi had traveled alongside Yugi for some time in America. They had shared many amicable conversations about their favorite games or new products they were excited to try. They had traded meals on the plane when Yugi, wide-eyed with wonder, learned that Otogi’s catered lunch was sushi, something Yugi had never seen before. And that kid, who kept a still-functioning five-year-old Tamogatchi on his beltloop, whose favorite ‘cool American clothing store’ was Hot Topic—that kid had the power to make an entire palace of people avert their eyes and turn away as he passed.

Otogi was starting to feel nervous.

As they came towards another heavily guarded door at the end of a long hallway, a raised voice carried clearly down towards them.

“He is weak! And he is poisoning his men with that weakness! You do not see how they think—how little respect, how little discipline—and you will do nothing to change this, even when your own family—your own blood sits at the ready!”

Another voice, also sharp but low enough to be inaudible through the door. The first voice, still shouting, also incoherent until it drew closer and slammed through the doors: “—and let the curse be on your own head when you spurn good counsel!”

An older man stormed down the hall and in their direction. His hair was long and grey, pulled halfway over his face in a fitful mess. Even as he visibly raged, his back was ramrod straight, and his eyes pierced over them, the first person to look them in the eye. Granted, the moment he did, one flashed bright and gold under all that hair, and Otogi blantantly and rudely stared. The man had a golden eye in place of a real one.

And then he stormed past them and turned the corner, and Yugi was already pressing on ahead as if nothing had happened, so Otogi pushed many horrified thoughts to the back of his mind and followed briskly. They passed through the still-swinging doors after a brief word with the guards and stood before the Pharaoh.

The room itself was very nearly a modern American office. Shelves lined every wall, scrolls mixed with folders and books; there was a desktop computer sitting in the corner beside large windows streaming in sunshine through open curtains. The sensation of locational time-travel was disorienting, no less so because the Pharaoh sat at his desk in the middle of it all, decked head-to-foot in intricate robes and jangling with jewelry and accessories as he scribbled away at some document with a ballpoint pen.

The Pharaoh looked up as they entered and smiled. “Yugi,” he said warmly. “You’re home.”

“Brother,” Yugi said, stepped forward and giving a short bow. “This is Ryuuji Otogi. From the Crawford Company.” Otogi bowed, his eyes on the ground as he secured a placid, humble, definitely-not-overwhelmed expression on his face. So it’s true, he thought, they really do have that same bizarre haircut.

“Ryuuji,” the Pharaoh said, his voice warm and deep—no hint of strain, no betrayal of any earlier shouting. “Is that Japanese?”

“Yes, sir,” Otogi said as he straightened up. “Crawford Company has many international investments. I joined when they expanded to Japan five years ago.”

“Then I believe I have a friend who is something of a rival to you,” the Pharaoh said humorously. “He now goes by Seto Kaiba.”

Otogi nodded once—his placid expression went even more placid. “Rival may be… a strong word, sir. Kaiba Corporation deals in specific types of technology, mostly for entertainment purposes. Crawford Company has worked with them on occasion – but our aims are perhaps a bit wider.”

“But entertainment is what brings you here, no?” The Pharaoh looked from Otogi to Yugi. “You are here to discuss your game?”

Yugi shifted uncomfortably, so Otogi continued the thread. “Yugi has kindly offered me a first-hand experience in Egyptian culture, to better authenticate our game. And of course this allows for the Pharaoh himself to approve its release,” he added modestly, with another short bow for emphasis.

The Pharaoh continued to look at Yugi for a moment in silence, as if he might read his mind in the quiet. Then he said, “Very well. The festival of Min is next week, if you wish to stay for the procession. Foreigners are not often welcome at the sacred ceremonies, but if you truly wish to experience our culture first-hand, perhaps we can find a place for you.”

Otogi’s heart raced, but he forced his expression into its humblest. “I am honored by your invitation, and gladly accept.” Another bow.

“Good,” the Pharaoh said briskly, his attention back on the many papers in front of him. “I trust we have your utmost discretion and care in my palace until that time. The guards at the door can bring you back to your room.”

Only five seconds of conversation and Otogi was dismissed. A good foreign diplomat could not ask for more. A good foreign diplomat did not have a thousand questions, complaints, concerns roiling around inside him to throw at the feet of the first true authority figure he’d met in this mess of a country.

Otogi was a very good diplomat. He bowed again, then bowed to Yugi (just in case), and left as quickly and as quietly as he could.

Once Otogi had left the room, Yugi let out the deep breath he’d been holding, shuffling a little closer to his brother’s desk. Atemu finally pulled his attention away from his papers and rose, circling the table to meet Yugi and pull him into an embrace.

“Welcome home,” Atemu said quietly.

“Thank you,” Yugi replied, returning the embrace. He stayed there for a moment, content in the familiar. Then he exhaled sharply and said, “I’m sorry about Otogi, I—”

“I do understand, Yugi,” Atemu interrupted, drawing back with his hands resting on Yugi’s shoulders. “Crawford holds many in his grip, and he does have the power to make our international exports more complicated if he is not happy. I trust you are handling matters with the necessary care. But,” Atemu’s gaze pierced into Yugi’s, reading him. “I believe there is more you wish to discuss with me. Your game, perhaps?”

“Pegasus’ game,” Yugi corrected hastily. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really interested in my input.”

“Oh? What did he want, then?”

A great many thoughts barrelled to the tip of Yugi’s tongue together—Pegasus’ demeanour, his clear strike for power, and many things he had hinted at or outright said—but he bit them back.

“The game he had to show me is done. He asked me to validate some decisions, but…” Yugi looked away, attempting a dry laugh. “He’s…a character, Pegasus. Not easy to read. He thinks the game will be very popular.”

“Well, that’s that then,” Atemu said, squeezing Yugi’s shoulders before he circled back towards his desk. “I wouldn’t worry too much. American ideas about our culture really have nothing to do with us. I’m sure this game will be full of scarabs, ankhs and mummy curses like everything else over there.”

“Mm,” Yugi agreed, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. He could still see the painted images Pegasus had shown him—the so-called Black Magician, a double to Mahaado’s soul beast, too striking to be any sort of guess… His hands itched towards the cards he had brought with him, but suddenly he wasn’t sure he wanted Atemu to see them. He could handle this. “Yeah,” he said, “scarabs. That sort of thing.”

“Just show his assistant around and have done with him,” Atemu said, now fully absorbed in a packet he picked up and started to flip through. “It’s only a game.”

“Yeah,” Yugi said with a sigh. He felt that he, too, had been quietly dismissed. He started to leave but hesitated, and with a feigned casual tone he added, “He wants to call it Duel Monsters.”

Atemu made a scoffing noise in his throat without turning back. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose he would.”


End file.
